Promise
by Hikaru Tsukiyono
Summary: Roswell x Nessiah. Who's the one using the other? Between an artificer and a necromancer possibly quite in love with said artificer, they'll probably work the question out. Or at the very least, they'll work it out in the morning.


Gift-fic for Feral Phoenix!

Warnings: Here be mansecks. If this is not your cup of tea, the back button is your best friend. Oh, and spoilers if you're not already aware of Nessiah's back story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yggdra Union. I wish I did, but I do not. I really want to know what Roswell's voice sounds like. And Nessiah's. Prithee, sue me not.

* * *

Promise.

(The wrong question, the right question, and all the questions in between.)

_Who's using who?_ The thought crossed his mind several times, even as Roswell sent away his attendants to amuse themselves until they were summoned again.

-

He'd always seen it as using the necromancer, using his body and playing at that oddest of all things called _love_. But then again, it was a little too easy, come to think of it, to be sensitive to Roswell's wants and needs in return and maybe it wasn't him doing the using after all—considering that the necromancer had managed to carve himself a little niche in Nessiah's mind—heart?—and it… hadn't hurt. Not like it could have.

Then again, it hadn't even started out being serious at all. The first time, he had come to the Black Rose Manor uninvited and late into the afternoon. Roswell invited him in despite this lack of warning (courtesy to match his own lack—it was not that he was intentionally rude, but that it had been so long such things simply ceased to matter as much as they did for people like Yggdra and Gulcasa, and they were both sovereigns).

They had spoken; he had touched upon the nature of the Ankhs and the lord had in turn spoken of his projects—he said nothing about one particular failed attempt at necromancy in his earlier years, just like Nessiah spoke nothing of the history past the nineteen years his face might betray. Speech lapsed into silence, and then Roswell inquired with only the slightest hint that he was being entirely earnest, "Would you find it problematic if I raised you after your death?"

So naturally things progressed to the artificer's admission that he was much older than he seemed and would probably outlive Roswell's lifetime, which really only piqued the necromancer's interest further. And then somehow they were walking through the halls, and wandering into Roswell's bedroom, and within the hour they were lip-locked and fumbling at the unfamiliar fastenings of each other's clothing. Nessiah had surprised himself by accepting such overtures, and he'd managed to surprise Roswell by allowing them to continue. Why had he said yes, though? Why had he allowed it? Was there any reason at all, any reason other than his seeing (for the first time, why? Not even an angel, this one) a kindred spirit of sorts?

The first time, he'd woken up alone. Granted, Roswell had legitimate reason not to be there—he'd mentioned something about a diplomatic meeting in the morning before they'd fallen into bed, and it did little to further one's opinion of a lord if said noble appeared in said meeting looking as if he'd been writhing on his back alternately uttering assurances and gasping a sundered artificer's name only the night before. Still, as Nessiah picked up a long chestnut strand of hair off of the pillow the lord had fallen asleep on, he hadn't been able to help questioning what he was getting himself into.

So maybe Roswell was using him. Maybe it was the kind of brief attachment that lordlings like Roswell could form only to break off later when he tired of the old-as-time artificer. Certainly the breaking would be more painful than the binding—such was the way of things. Nessiah was sure of one thing, though—not much could possibly match the pain of being sundered, so he was safe in that respect. He wouldn't be in so much pain from Roswell breaking off their relationship that he would lose his ability to function.

Even if he had gotten entirely too used to the arrangement they had set into place after that first time showed signs that it might repeat itself.

-

"Why are you thinking so hard right now?" the very necromancer in question murmured, right by Nessiah's ear. He had to lean down a little to get there, being six inches taller than him, but he would do so—had done so—regardless. "Come to bed, you're really tense. I think a backrub would work wonders on you… and maybe some of that tea one of the local hedge witches mixed up for me. It's wonderful for stress, especially when working out some of the kinks in my spell diagrams… Ness, what are you doing, exactly?"

"Undressing. You talk too much sometimes, Roswell. I would never have thought you loved speech so much from how little you said when I left the Ankh in your home." Nessiah's fingers undid the fastenings of his clothing with adept speed, until the lot of it (chains still clinking against his bared skin, vivid reminders of his own breaking and binding) fell in a pile on the floor.

The necromancer straightened up and frowned. "I was eleven, Ness. I didn't… I thought you were a little… I don't know."

"Frightening, perhaps?" Nessiah's lips quirked up in a half-smile. "I can't blame you, although I haven't been a child for quite some time now. I suppose I've forgotten how to hide behind anyone's legs."

The grief on Roswell's face for a second was enough to make the artificer shut his mouth. Instead, he reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, magical sight wavering slightly as their lips made contact and something far, _far_ too intense for his prior assessment ran through him like greased lightning. It was probably as close to an apology as he wanted to get—_could_ get—without evoking something best left buried, but the necromancer as always started hesitantly and let things heat up on their own.

The decrease in tension was sign enough that the apology had been accepted. Roswell's eyes slid shut and his shoulders relaxed, and his tongue eased in to cajole Nessiah's to come and play.

_I'm in too deep_, the artificer thought. It wasn't really about who was using who anymore. Somehow, they had stepped past that and fallen into something else entirely. What was it, though? It wasn't easy to put a finger on—but he really didn't need to at the moment, and he really didn't _want _to either. _But how had it come to this? I never wade in so far I cannot get out…_

"Nessiah?" Roswell broke the kiss gently. "We don't have to do anything tonight if you don't want to. Are you getting cold?" He made as if to move away, intending to fetch the comforter off of his bed.

"Don't."

The necromancer paused. "What's wrong, Ness?" he asked, quietly.

"Don't leave. Just…" Nessiah's voice subsided to a near whisper. "Just hold me. I'm fine, I'm not cold, just… don't leave me." _You've already bound me, to break the binding now would be cruel—crueler than you are capable of being, Roswell Branthese of the Black Rose._

Careful arms encircled him and held him close. "Is this okay?" Even misreading Nessiah's silences, the necromancer had never crossed boundaries he was not meant to and never delved into anything he should not. The replays, over and over and over again inside his mind, of everything from the sundering and the binding to the long years spent plotting and waiting, planning, manipulating—all of it seemed to fade a little to the background whenever Roswell came into the picture. They would probably never fully fade, but the artificer could better tune it out.

Nessiah came to the rudely abrupt, very sudden realization that whatever of love he had been expressing to this young lord was not playacting, no, it was the genuine article. He was in far too deep indeed. Still… still, he didn't really mind. It was something, after years upon years of chasing nothing, chasing the remnants of hope and revenge and all the centuries of pent-up anger and hurt and injury. It was something that he could hold onto. Something… no, some_one_ solid, warm, constant.

He couldn't ask for much more than that. Even though the Chains of Conviction still hung heavy upon him, freezing agony on the coldest nights and cruel impediment all other days, he probably would not have to spend all of that time suffering alone. "Yes," he replied.

Roswell's reply was soft and nearly inaudible, mumbled into the part of Nessiah's hair. "As long as I can hold you and it helps a little, I think I can be happy."

_And perhaps, my lordling, I have also bound you… and this bond I will not break._

_- _

"Let's move you to the bed—you'll be warmer under the covers. I'll ring for that tea," the necromancer proposed. "I won't leave. I promise."

Nessiah shook his head, chains clinking. "I'm fine. The tea will be unnecessary."

Sighing, Roswell pressed a kiss to the sundered angel's hair. "What can I do, then?"

"Come to bed with me," came the simple reply. "Although… you're wearing much more than I am. I believe a leveling of the playing field is in order."

"Ah. I see." The lord of the Black Rose paused for a breath. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. Why are you so hesitant now? We never had much of a problem in the beginning."

"I…" For a moment, there were myriad thoughts playing over Roswell's face. Nessiah wondered if the lord knew how easy he was to read. First doubt, then worry, some affection, a little bit of desire, and… was that _love_? "All right," he said, at long last, and removed his hat. "You win." The rest of his clothing followed the hat to the floor not too long afterward.

The artificer moved back towards the bed and tugged the necromancer down on top of him. For a moment Roswell paused, his silence a question—_how far should I go_? When he decided to play it safe and move over so that his weight wasn't so much on top of the shorter magician, however, a manacled hand stopped him.

"Take me," chains clinking counterpoint in the background as the same hand moved up and explored the contours of the lord's face with care. _Love me_, the pads of Nessiah's fingers imparted with their touch. Metal rested itself for a moment on Roswell's bare shoulders, contrasting sharply with the warmth of the artificer's skin.

"Ness," Roswell breathed, knowing (or at least suspecting) how much such words cost the artificer.

The hand grew impatient and tugged him down for another kiss, chains clanking in jarring reminder of their presence. _Do it before I lose heart and remember things I don't want to, _the kiss said, and Roswell understood.

What followed was a dizzying swirl of pleasure, one part of the artificer at a time, as Roswell's lips found their way over his pale skin to tease and kiss everything until Nessiah lay languid and relaxed on the silken sheets. The necromancer smiled and dipped his head to draw the sundered angel's arousal into his mouth, to distract him from the preparatory fingers tenderly invading his body.

The fingers pulled out, a slick length pushed in (gently, carefully, almost maddeningly slowly) and Nessiah ceased to think for a time as he held his lordling in his arms and let his cries of ecstasy ring primal harmony with Roswell's murmured praises and endearments.

---------------------

Warm and sated, Nessiah idly twirled a long lock of Roswell's chestnut-colored hair. "You worry too much," he told his sleeping lover, voice hushed so as not to wake him. "You'll drive yourself to an early death if you keep this up. You even worry about _me_."

Roswell's only reply was to unconsciously drape an arm over Nessiah's middle and snuffle quietly. Even in sleep, it seemed his dignity held a bit of priority—he did not really snore.

Briefly, the artificer considered staying awake for the night, so he wouldn't wake up alone. He felt comfortable, and relaxed, and… to tell the truth, he was tired too. It didn't make sense to stay awake, but all he had was Roswell's word, and he was afraid that he would wake up alone if he slept. Maybe it had been a dream. He'd had plenty of such dreams, certainly, plenty of dreams of lovers who had promised him the world, even, and he'd woken up to find he was alone and cold. But Roswell was different… wasn't he?

"_I won't leave. I promise."_ Well, Roswell _had_ promised, and he (unlike so many others, whether in his dreams or reality) did not give his word lightly. Nessiah settled himself more comfortably beside Roswell, the last thing he saw before he allowed his magical sight to slip away being the necromancer's peacefully sleeping face.

-

He slept, and did not dream. When he woke, Roswell's warmth was still there against his skin, and his arm was still slung over his body. Roswell had stayed.

Just as he had promised.

* * *

A/N: First time ever writing these two. Of course I owe thanks to the lovely Feral Phoenix (whose request this prompt was) and her helpful-beyond-belief character descriptions and furnished copies of the game script. Hope you've enjoyed, please tip the doorman on the way out! (Or, in plainer terms... please review. ;; ) 


End file.
